Of Solace And Touch
by strangegibbon
Summary: Not a new story, rather the trilogy already written gathered together under one name. I have added to it, however, here and there. Non canon for story purposes. Fenris' wounds are more than skin deep. F!HawkexFenris
1. Marked

**I own nothing but borrow indiscriminately. Non canon for story purposes – in response to a review, they have never been together before the events of this story. Rated M for adult themes and sexual content. FemHawke/Fenris. Thanks to my lovely beta, Midsummer.**

**Marked  
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When he'd referred to Merrill as 'that elven whore' he'd only been half listening to himself. After nearly a bottle of wine the flow of words had simply become a means of venting his bitterness and frustration onto the nearest easy target. And she'd said she liked to hear him talk, so he _was _talking_. _

Hawke had come late in the evening to visit as she was wont to do recently and he hadn't even realised he'd been listening for her footsteps until the mansion door had opened and he'd heard her ascending the stairs. He has learned to relax in her company, even to smile, albeit faintly, at her gentle teasing. But in the early hours he finds himself descending, as he often does, into morose recriminations and sour rantings. Generally she listens in silence until he is exhausted and has to excuse himself with weary apology but tonight he wants a reaction. Today she has needled him by letting a group of blood mages go free despite his opinions and he is unreasonably bothered by this. If he cared to look deeper he may even say _hurt,_ but he does not. He knows Merrill is her friend but the slap, when it comes, still surprises him.

He licks the blood from the corner of his mouth and smiles without humour. She is breathing heavily, cheeks flushed with outrage.

"You remind me of my master." He runs his thumb across his lower lip slowly.

She stares at him in shock for several moments and then her eyes widen.

"Are you getting _off_ on this?"

He continues to smirk at her until she shakes her head and turns to leave in disgust but not before he notices that her eyes are suspiciously bright.

This confuses him.

She does not speak to him for several days except to issue curt orders and he watches her carefully. He knows that he finds her beautiful, a warrior angel, quick, fierce and unrelenting in battle. Carving her way through their enemies, her face bright with exhilaration, he is unable to suppress a snarl of joy in response to her triumphant howl at the battle's end. She catches sight of his blood-smeared face and an expression he cannot fathom flickers as she turns from him, sheathing her weapons with more force than he thinks necessary, and strides away.

Her kindness disconcerts him.

He finds it hard to reconcile the gentle touch to the arm of a bereaved mother with the savage blows she deals to the raiders marauding the coast. He watches her run her oddly delicate hands over the arm of the apostate, checking for wounds amongst all the blood and feels..._jealousy?..._perhaps, but also curiosity and a pang of longing. He has not been touched in so long. The slap, painful though it was, he remembers as a connection, even a blessing. His master used to punish him for minor transgressions out of simple cruelty and boredom. All the touches he remembers receiving are savage and he wonders how he would respond to any other.

_Perhaps I deserve no other._

* * *

><p>He calls on her eventually, one evening, out of sheer loneliness and a want he will not even admit to himself and he finds her sitting staring into the fire, glass of wine in hand. She looks up as he approaches and smiles warily, the firelight playing on her face. She relaxes as he moves to fetch a chair and gestures with her glass. He shakes his head, does not want to give his demons easy access to his tongue again, sits down. Leaning back he hisses softly in pain as a wound he received earlier presses against the hard wooden back of the chair.<p>

"Are you injured?"

"I'm fine."

"Let me see." She pulls her chair closer.

"I told you I'm _fine."_ He feels oddly anxious at her proximity and flinches as she stands suddenly and moves behind him.

"Stop being so damn stubborn. Let me see."

He's too tired to argue and lets her press him forward, hands working at his tunic. She cautiously lifts it and he winces as the stiffened material pulls away from the raw wound on his back. He hears her tut in annoyance.

"This will fester. Come with me." The small, strong hand on his arm brooks no argument and he lets her lead him upstairs to sit on the edge of her bed whilst she fetches water and dressings.

"Tunic off." The wound throbs but not as much as his markings. He's simply disregarded it as he has so many other injuries but he can hear her grinding her teeth in annoyance and wonders how bad it really is. She is gentle but he still flinches at the warmth of the water. Her cool fingers applying the dressing brush against a tattoo and he tenses.

"Did I hurt you?"

"No."

He feels her hands return to the task of applying the bandage, her fingers again feathering over a brand, by accident or design he is unsure and he sighs and allows his eyes to drift closed.

"I _am _hurting you." She says, hands stilling. "You can just say, you know."

"No, your hands are...soothing to my markings. Like water on a burn. No-one has ever –"He stops abruptly, remembering where he is and inwardly cursing himself for letting his guard down. He moves to stand but she quickly seizes his shoulders. "No. I haven't finished with the dressing. Sit down, Fenris."

He sits almost against his will and certainly against his better judgement and her hands return to his back, taping and smoothing. _You want to be petted like a damn dog _he tells himself with disgust but still he cannot bring himself to leave. There is a pause and he feels a gentle touch at his neck.

"Do they hurt all the time?" He is silent for long moments.

"Yes." He feels her fingers begin to trace the lines and whorls across his back and he shivers involuntarily, letting his head drop forward. The pain recedes where she touches and instead of the hollowness underneath he feels...comfort.

"How do you cope with the pain, day after day?" There is another long silence until, wordlessly, he shows her the myriad small shallow cuts across his biceps and forearms. He feels her fingers pause in their ministrations as her eyes move over them. He thinks he loves her for her silence at his admission, his secret shame, and he groans softly as her fingers begin once again to ghost over his back.

"Does this help?" _Yes. Don't stop. _

"It helps."

It could have been minutes, perhaps hours later, he has lost all track of time, drifting, her fingers soothing, her voice murmuring nonsense, when he comes to himself finally. Shaking himself he stands and grabs his tunic, ignoring her start of surprise. He wants to say so many things. He does not know how.

"I must go. I..."

He feels her touch ghosting over him as he departs.

* * *

><p>She says nothing when he shows up again the following evening, a question in his eyes. She simply leads him upstairs, climbing behind him onto the bed to start the gentle tracing again. After a while she turns him onto his back, his eyes closed and moves her fingers over the marks on his chest, the scars on his arms, and later he leaves less abruptly and this time with a nod of thanks.<p>

He visits her most nights over the coming weeks and she has noticed things appearing on her writing table when she comes down in the morning. A bottle of wine, scented armour oil and once a delicate woven gold bracelet which looks of elven origin. She wears it but does not mention the gift, even though she knows he has noticed, just as she does not mention the moisture gathering at the corners of his eyes on occasion as she touches him.

Merrill remarks glibly that he does not look as grumpy as usual and when he scowls at her it is lacking in his usual venom. He finds he doesn't mind her prattle so much any more.

What he _does_ mind, however, is the way Anders is looking at Hawke because this makes his brands burn more fiercely and his fists clench, but he says nothing and simply brushes imaginary dirt off his feet whilst glaring at him murderously. Anders, of course, notices nothing different in his behaviour and this annoys him even more.

* * *

><p>Then Hawke's mother dies.<p>

She disappears to her mansion asking the others for space to grieve and he nearly strikes Anders for starting after her, hand outstretched. _Don't touch her, you filth. Mages did this to her. _He watches her departing back, her weary posture and feels an ache in his chest which is almost but not completely new. He comes to see her that night, striding past the helplessly protesting dwarven and elven servants, pushing open her door with a hand that is trembling slightly with fear and a desperation bordering on despair. _Be there and unharmed. _He almost thanks the Maker out loud when he sees her curled on her side in the centre of her ridiculous bed and comes to kneel on the floor, peering into her swollen face.

She opens her eyes slowly to see his face close to hers, impassive, and turns her head into the pillow. _Leave me alone. I can't give you anything tonight, Fenris. There's nothing left. _She feels the tears begin to soak into the sheets once more and hears him shift slightly. She thinks he has left and starts when the bed suddenly dips behind her and she feels him move to lie under the covers. His hands briefly rest at her waist, pulling her against him and then gently, gently, she feels warm fingers begin to trace patterns at her neck. She breaks down completely when she realises he is tracing _his_ marks, _his_ pain onto her and knows also his comfort at her touch. Finally, after the tears stop and her body is exhausted she feels his lips softly touch her shoulder as she drifts slowly into sleep.

When she wakes in the morning he is still there, his chest pressed against her back, arms loose around her waist, his face buried in her neck. She feels wrung out and calm. He wakes at the change in her breathing and his grip tightens briefly .

"Thank you." He murmurs into her hair.

"You're thanking...me? Last night. I'm not sure I would have made it through without..." her voice catches slightly. "I'm glad you came."

"I wanted to. I think I needed to show you." He stops and swallows, unsure how to continue. "I was marked for violence, Hawke. For destruction. It was all I knew." His hands begin to trace patterns across her breasts, making her arch into his touch.

"You made me gentle."

He strokes her nipples gently making her gasp. She can feel his erection against her thigh, reaches a hand back to stroke him through his underclothes and feels him tense. He buries his face into her hair with a stifled groan.

"Perhaps this isn't the best time." He murmurs unsteadily and she turns to press her chest against his, grasping his face gently between her hands.

"I think this is as good a time as any."

He slants his mouth against hers, then, and feels her roll against him hard, pressing her pelvis to his. They strip each other languidly, exploring each new area of revealed skin with fingers and mouths. She guides him gently, delighting in his smooth skin, smiling at his responsiveness. If his touch is hesitant and slightly clumsy at times she makes no complaint, watching him, arching under his hands. When he enters her it is slowly and carefully, both of them shuddering at the sensation, mouths joined. He stills for a moment, sheathed in her, resting his forehead against her breast whilst her fingers resume their endless tracing along the brands on his back. As he breathes she reaches a hand up to tangle in his hair. He meets her gaze, green eyes brilliant and unsure.

"I don't want to hurt you."

"You won't." She captures his lips with hers, soft and warm. "You don't know how to any more." He begins to move finally, thrusting slowly, finding an easy rhythm which makes her breath come faster.

"Fenris..."

In the end he forgets to be gentle, urged on by her soft cries, the velvet of her, her thighs tightening around his hips. When they both reach their completion with hitching gasps she holds him fiercely. He murmurs in her ear, broken words in Tevinter, and feels the joyful sting of her nails digging into his back.

Later, in the mirror, these new marks on his body, _her_ marks, will make him smile.

END


	2. Touched

**A sequel of sorts to Marked, set around five years later. M for sexual content. Non canon for story purposes. Thanks to Midsummer as always. FemHawkexFenris.**

**Touched**

His marks had brought them together, they both agreed. They were connected one to the other, whole sentences expressed with a simple tilt of the head, a brush on a shoulder. When opinions differed, as they often did, it was touch that reunited them, words, then, were redundant and unnecessary.

Neither of them had expected to live through the maelstrom that was Kirkwall in the final days before the sundering. Afterwards as they had all looked around, shell shocked, heads still ringing, they had instinctively stepped together, bodies barely touching but close enough to share warmth. A brief farewell to their companions was said, plans to reunite whilst lying low hurriedly made. Not with Anders, though. He stood apart, his eyes moving over the both of them. He was leaving, going into hiding and Hawke couldn't look at him. _Betrayer. _His halting apologies she'd barely heard, conscious only of Fenris' hip pressing against her side and she'd left with a curt nod, hurrying through the bloodstained streets to her mansion, Fenris following close behind.

They'd barely made it through the door before they were tearing at the other's armour, startling Bodahn and Sandal who scurried into the servants' quarters. They didn't even make it upstairs so desperate were they to devour, to feel as much of the other as possible. Locked at the mouth they wrestled out of the rest of their clothing and then Fenris had simply picked her up and and all but slammed her on her desk, papers and vials crashing to the floor. He hilted himself in one smooth thrust, making them both cry out, setting a furious pace until they had careened over the edge, gasping, lips joined and knuckles white. Breathing hard, he'd remained inside her for a few moments afterwards, studying her face, cupping it in his hands whilst her fingers traced his chest, before finally slipping from her and carrying her upstairs. They burrowed beneath her sheets, limbs entwined. He whispered in her ear that he would never leave her.

* * *

><p>Little changed over the next few years. Unrest in Kirkwall settled even as it grew in distant lands. Out of their companions, the only ones they saw regularly were Varric and Aveline. Merrill had gone in search of other Dalish clans, still seeking ancient knowledge, Bethany back to Ferelden to try and support her fellow mages. Isabela and Anders were irrevocably gone. Hawke could not help but feel a pang when she thought of them, and, eyes hooded, lost in her memories, she'd feel a soft touch on her face, a comforting hand on her back and she'd relax into him, look up to see him studying her attentively. He was a constant presence, solid and reassuring, fierce and passionate. During the heated nights his intense green gaze would hold her own until she forgot herself in his eyes and touch. He never told her he loved her, never uttered the words, but she felt his adoration in a million small ways, in the glances over his shoulder at her during battle, the sweep of his lips across her abdomen as he gently explored her with lips and tongue, chuckling at her whines of impatience, the trailing of his fingers down her arm when they walked together in the evenings.<p>

Together with Varric and Aveline they worked with the City Guard stabilising the criminal elements battling for dominance following the uprising, the four of them a practised and fearsome unit. This continued for months until Aveline shyly announced one day that she and Donnic were expecting a child. Hawke was overjoyed, spending a lot of time with an unexpectedly maternal Aveline as Donnic assumed the Captain's role in her absence. When the child was born, a boy, Hawke held the tiny wailing creature with a mixture of awe and longing. Aveline joked that the baby was showing signs of being as grumpy as Fenris and Hawke, chuckling, had looked up to find him watching her with a soft expression, smiling slightly.

She had known for some time that children were impossible for her, a serious injury years ago had put paid to any thoughts of having her own baby. _You cannot grieve for what was never lost _she told herself. She made plans, though, and one evening curled around him in their bed she tentatively raised the subject, back pressed against his chest and words half muffled by a pillow.

"I...have found a woman. An elf."

"Congratulations."

"No, I- . Listen. I want a child. _Your _child. She has three of her own, all healthy. She says she can carry yours. For us."

He was silent a long time, lips buried in her hair.

"And this is what you want?"

"Yes."

"Then I will do it." His mouth moved over her shoulder.

He went to meet with the elf woman a few nights later at his mansion. Hawke sat by the fireplace downstairs, unable to sleep, images of him with someone else, _anyone _else, spooling over and over in her mind. _A means to an end, nothing more _she told herself fiercely_. _He returned in the early hours, crashing through the mansion door and startling her. He staggered into the living room and she could smell the wine on him immediately, saw his reddened eyes. He moved towards her, collapsed on his knees in front of her and buried his head in her lap.

"Fenris..."

"Couldn't. Not with her. Not with _anyone_...no-one but you..." he murmured, hands grasping desperately at her hips. "I'm sorry, Hawke."

She reached down and tangled her hands in his hair, raising his face towards hers. "It's alright, my love. Come to bed."

Upstairs they moved together tenderly with the intimacy of years, each watching the other intently. Sitting astride him, the moonlight shading his markings she saw almost for the first time the sea-green eyes, the lean, muscled body, felt the soft, smooth skin and wondered at his wordless devotion to her.

They never spoke of children again.

* * *

><p>During their time together she only ever saw him break down once. Varric had gone on yet another expedition to the Deep Roads claiming inactivity and impending middle age was making him fat. His troupe had set off an ancient trap and the dwarf was killed getting the rest of the team out safely. Aveline was the one to bring the news, weeping unashamedly in the living room. The two women had held each other whilst Fenris sat silently, head down. She woke that night to find him gone from their bed and padding downstairs she found him sitting in front of the fire, face in his hands. He raised his head when her fingers combed gently through his hair and she saw the wetness on his cheeks. When she leaned down to capture his lips in a soft kiss he pulled her onto the floor urgently, pulling at her nightclothes, and, rolling them, entered her with a swift thrust that made her gasp and him groan. Their lovemaking was urgent, grief stricken, the two of them spitting in the face of their own mortality, clinging onto the other for dear life. They lay there for hours afterwards, talking softly, taking comfort in each other's bodies.<p>

When Bianca was recovered from the Deep Roads, Fenris mounted her above the fireplace with a strange reverence.

* * *

><p>Time passed, they took less and less work, delighting in the other's company. Remembering, she knows she has never felt so content, been so loved, even if he never said the words.<p>

But then things began to change. It started slowly, little things she started noticing, misplaced objects, curious marks on the walls of the mansion. One afternoon as they rested in the cool of their bedroom he rolled over to push himself up, looking at her questioningly.

"Hm?"

"I didn't say anything."

He looked puzzled. "My apologies."

She'd catch him staring down into the street or he'd stop, head tilting as though he was listening to something. One night she awoke to find him standing by the window, the moonlight dappling his body. She went to him, put her arms around him and he hissed softly.

"What's wrong?" She saw then a faint sheen of sweat on his forehead. He felt impossibly hot under her hands.

"The...marks. The brands."

"They're painful?"

"More so recently."

"Why?"

"I do not know." She studied his profile, face creasing in concern and then took him back to bed, tracing the lines and whorls as she had done years before, until he fell into a restless sleep.

He started having nightmares, waking her with hoarse, terrified shouts. He would never tell her what they were, would only hold her with clammy hands when she woke him, whispering '_you're safe'_ over and over into her neck. Returning to the house she would catch him leaning against the walls, hands rubbing his marks, murmuring to himself. Sometimes he would leave the mansion alone, returning at dusk, unable to say where he'd been or what he'd been doing. She followed him once and watched him sit on a bench, staring into space for hours before returning home. He caught her by surprise, his eyes moving over her as he turned suddenly but did not seem to recognise that she was there. After he had left she returned home, shaken. He was there when she arrived and greeted her with warm enthusiasm.

One morning she entered their bedroom to find him sitting on the bed holding his sword, shaking his head slowly. He looked up at her and she saw then his eyes were wide and fearful.

"I can't remember how to buckle this on."

She took him to the healer that day, pacing up and down in front of the tiny room. The mage came out and drew her aside, face creased with worry. "I'm sorry. I'm not sure, it's not something I've seen before, but...it's...I think it's lyrium poisoning. There's nothing I can do, the brands..." she shrugged helplessly.

"How long?"

"Not long. Months. Weeks."

They left with treatments for the pain and some for the hallucinations and nightmares, holding tight to one another. That night she broke most of the furniture in the mansion, raging and desperate. He stood watching her silently and then, quietly as a shadow, slipped forward to catch her arms and hold her fast.

"Let me _alone, _Fenris."

"You are harming yourself" he kissed her bruised and bloodied knuckles. "Please don't do this, it's not helping. I would not see you hurt."

"It's too late for that!" She began to cry then, dry heaving sobs. "How can you be so calm? It's not _fair_. For you to escape, break that _bastard's_ hold over you only for those marks to..."

He bent his head to hers, hair brushing her cheek. "These marks brought me to you. Without them I would never have found you and I do not, I _cannot_, regret one single thing that happened after. Please, Hawke, I don't want you to either." He folded her in his arms and she clung to him.

* * *

><p>He took the potions and was lucid most of the time. He refused the pain treatments saying he wanted to feel as much as possible whilst he still could. She sent missives to the others, desperate letters seeking knowledge and cures but to no avail. She opened the door one afternoon to find Bethany, Merrill and Aveline standing there and any hope she may have had evaporated at their stricken expressions.<p>

"I asked." Said Merrill, biting her lip as they sat by the fire. "I mean, I asked around. You know. In the Fade. Quite a few times, actually. But no-one could help me."

Hawke drew in a quick breath. "Don't ever mention that to him. Thank you, but he would never have forgiven either of us even if you had found something of use."

Fenris began to leave the mansion less and less, the heat and bustle of Kirkwall too much for him to bear. Merrill and Aveline still visited, Bethany left again for Ferelden, unable to witness her sister's pain. Fenris found distraction in her and in Aveline's cheerful, active boy, watching him pelt around the mansion with tolerant amusement. In the evenings she would read to him from the Book of Shartan, up in their room and he'd listen, eyes shut, hand upon her thigh stroking slowly. Knowing his marks were painful she tried to be gentle when they made love but he only held her more fiercely, whispering softly to her in Tevinter, words she did not understand.

One evening he had retired early, exhausted, and she had stayed up sitting in front of the fire, when there came a soft knock at the door. Opening it she took a step back in surprise when she saw Anders standing there, half hidden in shadow. He looked older, thinner, the moonlight slanting across the sharp planes of his face.

"I received your letter about Fenris" he said softly. "I'm sorry I couldn't come sooner." He studied her features. "Maker, you are just as beautiful as when I saw you last."

"Anders..." She couldn't seem to draw in a proper breath. "I never thought I'd see you again. Not after...is there anything you can do for him?"

"No, I'm sorry. It's...I'm sorry, Hawke." His heart contracted as her face fell. "I have brought something for him, though. For the pain. It'll get worse, eventually it'll be intolerable." He handed her a small vial. "This is a potion that will..." he took a breath, dropping his eyes from hers "...ease his passing." He reached out as if to take her hand but she flinched and he drew back.

"Are you saying what I think you're saying?" He gave a short nod and stepped away.

"I must go, it's not safe for me here." He turned to leave and then paused, back towards her, head down. "I was in love with you, Hawke. I wish things had been different. This is all I can give you, I'm sorry. You won't see me again."

She said nothing, fingers white around the vial. She watched him melt into the darkness of the street and stared into the dancing shadows long after he had disappeared.

* * *

><p>Hawke doesn't leave the mansion much anymore.<p>

Orana, Bodahn and Sandal are long gone and the house requires surprisingly little upkeep. She finds she prefers the solitude and silence, padding through the house in the long afternoons, fingers brushing the books on the shelves, figures on the desks. Aveline still visits, Merrill has gone, disappeared in search of other clans. Hawke turns away more visitors than she entertains.

Waking early in the still mornings she fancies she sees a silvered figure watching her from the corner of the bedroom before melting away soundlessly, feels fingers brushing her face in the moments before she's properly awake. Retiring to bed after a long, quiet day she will glimpse a bright green gaze from a cracked mirror and her heart will stop until she shakes herself, blaming a trick of the light, the dust in her eyes. She will not find Merrill to ask if he haunts the dusty mansion, watching her. She doesn't want to know. She falls asleep feeling his eyes move over her skin, re-living the last memory of him, the last time she felt his gaze on her, green as summer fields.

The pain is bad and he lies atop the sheets, even the light pressure of the covers too much for him to bear. She reads to him and his lips curve into a smile at the familiar words, his hand rests on her abdomen and she feels the heat of his fingers, the slight trembling of his limbs. She closes the book, kissing his pallid cheek, strokes his forehead with cool fingers, he sighs.

"Hawke...I'm tired. I think it's time for me to sleep. But...I don't want to leave you." Her lips tremble.

"I got to have you for this long, Fenris, I am grateful for everything. I never knew why you stayed, never asked. But I have to let you go, I know this. Please don't worry about me, I'll be fine. Sleep, my love. I'll watch over you." He holds her gaze _oh green green eyes_ with his own as he drains the vial and rolls to face her. He reaches up, already heavy lidded, to touch the wetness on her cheeks.

"I will always love you, Fenris."

She feels his words rather than hears them, whispered across her cheek with the last _rise fall_ of his chest. A sense memory branded into her skin forever.

"I am.._._yours..."

END


	3. Haunted

**This is for Rebekah. I miss you.  
><strong>

**Rated M for sexual content and dark themes. Thanks as always to my lovely beta, Midsummer and to all the readers who have favourited, followed and/or reviewed. FemHawkexFenris**

**Haunted**

The dead do not feel.

He does not know how much time has passed since he has been in this place. He has only a sense of _here _and _not here. _In the _here _it is always night. He follows her through the mansion as she pads through the rooms, sometimes only a breath away from her. The air is not disturbed when he passes and he leaves no shadow. He watches her go on without him in the big empty house they called their own and he has seen her fall apart, pull herself together only to fall apart again countless times and yet _and yet_ his eyes are dry, his chest does not ache. Everything is muted in the _here_. He is always cold, he is always hollow. He would give anything to feel warmth, her tears, _anything._

He watches her from shadowed corners, from the cracks in shattered mirrors. He watches her sleep and he is there when she sits, wakeful, on the edge of her ridiculous bed waiting for the dawn. He sits beside her on these long, quiet nights, close enough to touch but never close enough to _feel_ and when the sun rises for a fleeting moment he knows heat on his face and fancies she sees him, brief as a thought, before he is dragged again into the _not here._

This place he recognises, he has been to the _not here _before, after all. This place is the Fade and he wanders through blasted, long dead ruins with the ever present tendrils of mist tugging icily at his body. He sees no-one. When he first appeared he was confused, raging, spoiling for a fight. He could not understand why the myriad denizens of the Fade avoided him even as he sought them out, howling, sword in his hands and brands blazing white-blue. He knows now that he disturbs them for he is neither fully of the Fade nor the Real. He had thought his nightly vigils in her Kirkwall mansion memories or at the very least Fade projections but he now understands the truth of them. He is trapped. Neither dead nor alive, a shade caught between the realms, out of the Maker's reach, out of _anyone's _reach.

He appreciates the elegant brutality of it. Of Anders' final act of revenge. Oh, it is the apostate's doing, he knows this. Anders jealous to the last. A vial gifted to Hawke to 'ease his passing'. A vial to prevent him passing fully over, to condemn him to the daily torture of watching her from behind glass walls. And she would never know the truth of it. To be bound to her eternally, never able to touch or feel, only present on the edges of her awareness at the beginning of each day before slipping away.

He knows he is as much as he was in life, his mind and memories intact once more. He finds himself talking to her, at her, in ways he never could when they were together. Then he could _touch _her. Words were often unnecessary and she never pushed him to share what was in his head. There never seemed to be enough time. Now all he _has_ is time and the words spill from him endlessly.

He murmurs to her still, fire-lit face elegant soliloquies on her beauty, her grace and her ferocity during their long, quiet evenings where he is with her and she is alone. He recounts experiences they shared, laments what they never had the chance to share. He tells her how she excited him, how she made him feel when he fought beside her, when he moved above and inside her. He tells her he loves her over and over, sentences he never uttered in life. In these moments he feels alive, a lonely ghost whispering in her ear. There is no pain and the anger is long gone. There is only _this_.

He looks forward to the _here _where he materialises after nightfall, always in the shadows of the mansion_. _He stands in the corners he used to haunt in his last months, tracing the marks on the wall that his armour and his agonised fingers made and watches her at her desk or sitting by the fire, entertaining the few guests that visit. His eyes move over the lines of her face, fingers idly tracing the curve of her lips in the air before him.

Tonight it is Cullen again. He recognises the look in the new Knight-Commander's eyes. He has been visiting Hawke often, at least once a week and Fenris cannot help but notice that Hawke's posture has become progressively more relaxed, her expression softer as the visits have continued. He begins to have vague misgivings, the first stirrings of emotion for some time. One cold night he watches her lead the templar upstairs and he does not, _does not_ want to see this but he cannot seem to stop himself. He drifts alongside them into _their_ bedchamber, watches as Cullen kisses, caresses and eventually disrobes _his_ Hawke. He kneels beside the bed as she turns her face towards the moon dappled window with Cullen moving slowly over her, gasping into her neck, and he brings his lips close to hers. Her eyes are squeezed tightly shut and he wants to thumb away the silvered tracks on her cheeks. He realises he can no longer remember her smell. He sees the syllables of his name form on her lips as she reaches her climax and feels a small dart of triumph. _You have not forgotten me._

Cullen leaves before daybreak and he leans against the wall in the corner of her room after she has finally fallen asleep, clutching her sodden pillow. As the sun begins to rise she turns towards him murmuring his name, eyes opening slowly. He starts towards her, melting away in the sunlight as the mist takes him once more.

* * *

><p>Time passes. How much, he cannot tell. He wanders through a deserted elven ruin, remnants of old magic making his brands ache dully. He stops, gazing at the dimly flickering sun and is suddenly aware of a presence behind him. He whirls, sword at the ready, to see a figure standing motionless in front of a desiccated altar. He approaches warily as it slowly turns to face him.<p>

_Anders. _

The apostate's eyes are a cold, empty blue. His hands are clenched tight on his staff and his black robes are in tatters. _Not Anders, Justice. Does anything of Anders remain? _The apostate nods stiffly at the elf, expression unchanging. His eyes narrow at Fenris as he moves slowly closer.

"Was this your doing or Justice's?" He asks coldly. "Hawke believed you were not entirely responsible for your actions. It was a subject over which we often argued. She was always more forgiving than I."

He sees the eyes flicker for just a moment.

"Perhaps you imagined my fate at your hands would bring you closure? Satisfaction, perhaps? Peace?" Fenris shakes his head slowly. "I know enough of such things to be sure that this petty act has brought you none of those."

Anders' brow creases, there is a twitch of the hand before he again becomes still, head cocked, eyes following him. Fenris moves closer, hands tightening on his sword. "You will not speak to me, then? Not one word from you? You _owe _me an answer, mage."

Anders' mouth opens and his shoulders tense but there are no words, just a long, hissing exhalation. Fenris stops then and looks at him carefully, realising the mage's body is taut and trembling, his jaw clenched. His eyes flicker from blue to hazel and back again almost too fast to see, over and over. _No. Not completely gone. A fragment remains of him still inside this prison. A stalemate, both of them wrestling for control. _His lips twist. _If he slips but for one moment he is consumed._ _A hateful, eternal struggle. This is no life. _He hesitates briefly and then sheathes his sword, folding his arms and eyeing the rigid figure in front of him.

"I...have imagined this moment many times" he says quietly. "I had thought to wring from you a confession, an apology, before I took your life. Of course I knew such things were impossible for someone in my situation, yet here you are. Helpless. I could strike you down if I wished. You would not be able to stop me doing so, a lapse in concentration and one of you is lost." He rakes a hand through his hair. "I raged at you, cursed your name, begged the Maker to punish you." He smiles grimly and shakes his head slowly. "You can appreciate the irony. Now I see that He has indeed condemned you...and all I feel is _pity_. Stupid human, you knew the risks and you have trapped yourself as surely as you have me. But I still have _her._"

He turns away, hearing another hiss, a faint moan. "You truly are an Abomination now. Maker have mercy on your soul."

Fenris walks away from the lonely figure and he does not look back.

* * *

><p>Tonight Merrill is visiting and Hawke leans back in her customary chair listening to her chatter with half lidded amusement. They have drunk nearly two bottles of the elven wine she has brought with her. <em>A good year, <em>he notes from his shadowed corner. She looks relaxed, content.

"So…" says Merrill, propping her elbows on her knees conspiratorially. "I've heard little birds tweeting about you and the handsome Knight-Commander…?"

Hawke flushes, swirling the remnants of her wine in her glass and avoiding her inquisitive gaze. "Yes, I…it's quite early, so…it's not…" She stops abruptly.

"Well I think it's good! I mean, of course, if you do. It's been two years since…and you're both single, so…it's alright, isn't it? Hawke? He's nice to you?"

He watches her roll the wineglass across her forehead, eyes closed. "Yes, he's _nice, _Merrill. He's kind, courteous, affectionate, but…he's not _him._" She buries her face in her hands, the wineglass rolls forgotten along the rug. "Oh, Merrill. I can't seem to...why can't I move on? He's still all around me, every day. I wake up and it's like he's just left the room or...or...he's just finished speaking to me. I'm trapped, Merrill. I see him _everywhere_ and I miss him so _much. _I can't let go." Her shoulders heave slightly and Fenris crosses the room to kneel in front of her, peering up at her hidden face. _Damn Anders. He punished you just as much as he did me._

Merrill makes a soft, choked sound behind him and he turns to find her staring, eyes wide, hand over her mouth in shock. _Don't just sit there, witch. Comfort her, hold her, soothe her with some meaningless platitudes. _He stands impatiently, hands aching to smooth Hawke's hair but the elf's eyes follow _him_ as he rises. He freezes, mouth dropping open in surprise. _She sees me. _She removes her hand, opens her mouth to speak and he shakes his head quickly, makes a negating gesture. _No. Hawke must not know of this._

Merrill nods slowly, eyes filling with tears. He scowls at her. _Save your pity, witch. I do not need it._

She leaves shortly afterwards, hugging Hawke fiercely and watching him carefully over her shoulder. She promises to return in a few days and smiles as Hawke strokes her face gently, eyes bright. _She loves Hawke still, after all these years._

"When are you seeing Cullen again?" she asks, looking at him. Fenris stirs from his position in the corner of the room, eyes narrowed.

"Tomorrow, I think."

"Well, he's a nasty templar and all but give him my best!" She smiles brightly and then departs, shooting him one last searching look before she disappears. Hawke retires to bed but he lingers in the front room, hand pressed to his mouth in thought. Merrill returns later just as he knew she would, slipping through the front door silently as the last embers of the fire dull. She circles him silently, muttering under her breath and he feels his skin tingle unpleasantly. Her wide, usually guileless eyes are hard and focused and he stiffens, arms folding reflexively as he catches the dancing sparks in her gaze.

"By the Dread Wolf" she breathes. "It _is _you. I thought you were, I don't know, a ghost, a desire demon maybe – and by the way those are perfectly acceptable consorts if you're careful enough – but you're not. Thank goodness, I thought Hawke had, well, I was worried. She's not like me. But...she doesn't know, does she?"

He shakes his head. "She does not."

Merrill tilts her head. "Can't hear you. Can see you but then I have been making certain..._agreements_ with spirits in order to be able to understand the Fade better, so that's probably why." She sees his lip curl and rolls her eyes. "Oh, don't you start telling me off, I can lip read, you know." She hesitates as if unsure how to continue, biting her lip. "Besides, I think I can help." He straightens at that and unfolds his arms abruptly.

"It's a binding spell. A powerful one, holding you here, has to be. But I can break it, send you on. You know..." she makes fluttery motions with her hands. "Away from here." His eyes widen and there is a surge of anxiety, the unexpected intensity of feeling making him shiver suddenly. _Wait. Not now. I need to...I need to tell her..._His eyes move in the direction of her room. _It's too soon._

Merrill watches him, his sudden anguish making her chest ache. "I'm sorry. It must be hard. To say goodbye when she can't hear you. To love her when she doesn't see you. I...I...understand." She presses her lips together, tears pricking at her eyes. _I know what I have to do. _"I need to prepare anyway, so it'll be tomorrow. Tomorrow I'll set you free, Fenris."

He gazes at her for long moments and then nods. She leaves quickly, eyes shadowed.

He lies beside Hawke watching her sleep. She is restless, hands reaching towards him, tangling in her sheets. He is leaving her. _Again_. And all the words that tumbled from him unheard are suddenly gone leaving a desperate need to touch and hold one last _just one last_ time. After daybreak he paces the Fade restlessly, impatiently, fear and anticipation crawling in his gut. _I had prepared for this. I had accepted my fate, sought release from the pain and fear of the last days. Now I would rather walk a ghost by her side than move on without her. _He slams his fist into a nearby rock, hissing approvingly at the sudden pain. _But she must be free of me or live a half life as I do. I have to let her go. _He howls at the gunmetal sky until his throat is raw, relishing the dull ache in his chest.

He reappears that night in her bedchamber and Cullen is there. He starts from the corner and circles the half naked couple in the centre of the room, snarling furiously. _Is this the final insult? I must watch __**this **__before I am taken from her again? _At once he feels the pinprick tingle of magic across his brands. _Wait, please. Wait-_

"Wait-"

Hawke raises her face to his. "What's the matter?"

He is dizzy suddenly, confused. He is...holding her? She is warm, smells of lavender and armour oil and he can feel her breath on his face. _What is happening? _He looks down at square, unfamiliar hands, a broad muscled chest. _Cullen? _He steps back suddenly.

"Are you well?" Her eyes are concerned and she reaches out to touch him gently, the sensation of her hand on his chest makes him gasp. "Cullen?"

_Magic. _He curls a lip in disgust but the feeling dies as he looks at her. He's here, with her, and all of a sudden the wherefores don't matter. Nothing matters but her.

"I'm not...it's not Cullen. It's me. It's...Fenris."

"What?"

"I am not sure I can explain. But I am here. Hawke, it's _me_."

She jerks back from him, her face a mask of fury. "Stop it, Cullen." She begins to turn away but he grabs her arm, pulling her, struggling furiously, back towards him.

"Why are you doing this? You think this will turn me on, this stupid game? Where you pretend to be my dead lover? Do you think this is _funny?_"

"No. Wait. Please, Hawke. _Please." _He goes to rake a hand through his hair, fingers twisting through Cullen's much shorter locks and notices her still suddenly at the familiar gesture.

"I should have given you a child" he says desperately. Her mouth drops open. "I should have gone back to the elven woman and done what you asked so you would not have been left alone. I'm sorry."

She is shaking now and moves closer, peering into his eyes. "We never talked about that afterwards. I told _no-one._"

"Nor I." His trembling hands frame her face. "It _is _me, love. I am here."

"Fenris? How is this possible? I watched you...I _buried _you. Is this...are you staying?"

"I do not know." He rests his forehead against hers, brushing a hand across the back of her neck.

She presses herself against him then and he slants his unfamiliar mouth against her familiar lips, hands dancing over her body in ways she remembers only in dreams. She pulls him towards the bed, kissing his chest and he reflects that without the brands his skin is less sensitive. There is no pain, true, but he wants to feel all of her again, just as he used to.

"Don't go. _Please. _I missed you so much."

"I do not wish to. But I believe it is out of my hands." His mouth moves over her shoulder. "Hawke, I-"

"Shhh." She pulls him on top of her, kissing him fiercely and he gasps as he is suddenly _there, _buried in her. "_Fenris._" He moves within her, slowly at first, feeling her hands tracing invisible whorls and sweeps on his back, fingers cool on his _not his _skin. Her back arches as he circles his hips against her and he smiles as she hisses an expletive. He remembers her body and how to please her, has re-lived these times with her in the long hours of the night while she slept. But to _feel _her again...he does not have the words. He looks down at her in the dim light, noticing the fine lines at the corners of her eyes, the beginnings of grey in her hair and thinks she has never looked more beautiful. She clings to him as he increases his pace and he pulls her tightly to him, gasping into her hair as he spills into her, feeling her clench around him as she cries out.

He rolls, tucking her into his side, arm over his chest as they recover. His lips rest against her forehead.

"Where were you?" she murmurs. "Do you remember? I need to understand what's happened..."

He pauses. "I was-"

"What was that?" Hawke sits up suddenly, face alert. "That noise." They still, listening, eyes meeting as there is a soft thump from downstairs, before rising as one and throwing on underclothes. She moves to her chest, removing her daggers before retrieving his sword and handing it to him. He touches her face briefly and they creep to the door, padding down the stairs and squinting into the dim room lit by the glow of the dying fire. For a moment there is silence, then a faint whisper drifts from the corner of the room.

"It worked, then. I'm glad."

"Merrill?" Hawke hastily lights a candle, moving in the direction of her voice.

"_Merrill!" _The elf sits, back against the corner of the room, legs splayed. She smiles weakly at the both of them and Fenris realises with horror that her tunic is soaked in blood. Blood runs in small rivulets down from her arms, her legs, pooling around her body. There is a small silver knife in her hand.

"Merrill, what did you _do?_" Hawke kneels before her, face ashen.

"I made a promise. To him. He has to move on, can't stay here. But I wanted you to have one last evening together. A gift for my Hawke. My poor, sad Hawke." She smiles faintly. "I'm sorry, you should have had more time but I'm running out. Didn't have enough." She is so pale, her breathing shallow and rapid.

"You should not have done this." His limbs are beginning to feel leaden, his vision blurry and all at once he knows that when Merrill fades, he will also. "Hawke..."

"Just kiss her goodbye, Fenris" Merrill says, her voice barely more than a whisper. She reaches out and grasps Hawke's wrist. "I'm so sorry I couldn't do more. I love you, Hawke."

"_No!" _Hawke's gaze flits frantically between their faces, eyes widening as the realisation hits her. Fenris moves towards her, presses his mouth against hers, murmuring, "I have loved you for so long." He feels her tremble against him.

Hawke's eyes are blurry, her throat tight as her mouth works but no words will come. She feels Merrill's cold hand on hers and Fenris' lips on her forehead before they both fall away leaving her, gasping, on her knees. Merrill is slumped against the wall, Cullen's body is collapsed on the floor before her. There is no sound other than the faint crackle of the fire and her own racing heartbeat.

She picks up Fenris' sword, settling back against the wall, resting her head on Merrill's shoulder. Her eyes are dry, her face feels numb.

_I can't do this. Not again. To lose so much. Bethany, Mother, Varric, Merrill, oh Merrill...Fenris. All of you parts of me, all gone. There's nothing left. To have you given back to me, my love, only to have you torn from me again. All those years you followed me without question. Now it's my turn to follow you._

Only one way to do this. Quickly. She kisses Merrill's pale cheek and fancies she sees a slight smile on her lips, takes her knife even as she sees Cullen begin to stir. _I'm sorry, Cullen. You did not deserve this. _There is barely any pain.

She closes her eyes. There is warmth on her face, the sun is bright against her closed lids and she hears a low, familiar, delighted chuckle. She opens them and he is _there _walking towards her through endless summer meadows, expression soft and hands outstretched.

He is so beautiful. Hawke smiles and then laughs aloud, all the years of pain and weariness falling away from her, the weight of her sorrow suddenly lifted from her shoulders. With a sigh that is pure joy she runs into his waiting arms.

*END*


End file.
